


Surreal

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Worth 1000 words... [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gentle Kissing, M/M, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:57:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10110359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John waits with only the rain for company.





	

**Author's Note:**

> See the inspiration image [here](https://au.pinterest.com/pin/223139356517555783/)  
> I'd love to credit the artist - please let me know if you know who it is!

The rain poured down the window, silent as tears on a widow’s cheeks. The analogy came to John as he sat quietly. The windows were unfamiliar, as was everything about this room. Mycroft had assured John that this place was safe, a platitude John appreciated in principle but was hollow without the self-assured look Mycroft usually wore. Today his smile was openly false, the façade cracked to reveal the anxious brother underneath.

 

For it was Sherlock John thought of, watching the rain stream down the windows on this warm night. A summer storm was not unheard of in the city, but it struck John as just another aspect of this day which leant itself to the surreal. The black town car had been usual, the presence of Mycroft himself had not; the drive through the city had been usual, the destination a mystery. Even the meals he had been served, for he had paced this room since early morning, had been just different enough to be jarring to John. Beans on toast, but made from scratch, with fancy bread. A good pad thai, but not the same as from their local Thai restaurant. Like being in a parallel universe, he thought, except that Sherlock is not here. John choked down a sob at the idea of being anywhere without Sherlock for longer than this long, long, day.

 

There had been no explanation, not that Mycroft ever really explained. On any other day, with any other set of circumstances, that would not matter, because Sherlock would be here. Today, with Sherlock absent and Mycroft’s anxiety clear beneath his crumbling façade, John’s darkest fears played out in his head, over and over. He had dozed at some point, the gentle drumming of water on glass lulling him to sleep; flashed of his dreams had shown the same horror in a thousand guises. Sherlock floating face down in the Thames; Sherlock bleeding out, the river of blood cradling his head like a lover; Sherlock’s blank eyes staring at the sky, the back of his head shattered like a fragile eggshell.

 

John had woken, gasping, disoriented by the grim scenes and the unfamiliar room. The gloom had fallen into dusk while he slumbered, and the room was almost dark. John scrubbed one hand over his face, blinking to moisten his eyes. Mycroft had been explicit, that John was not to leave the room; he had no way of contacting the man, so John slumped down again, desperately pushing his mind from the myriad of terrors that might now be assailing Sherlock. For a moment, he wondered how long he would wait, how long hope would keep him warm before its fire faded, cooling his heart until it froze like a flower in the frost of morning.

 

“John.” The voice was quiet but clear. John shot up, eyes searching wildly in the half darkness for the source. He found it, leaning against a wall near a window, flat light from through the slick window illuminating the familiar form.

“Sherlock.” He breathed. John swallowed hard. He had thought about little else since he had arrived, and yet he had no words. They stared into each other for a long moment, John swaying with shock and fatigue and relief.

“I’m safe, John.” Sherlock’s voice cracked, the few words testing him. John nodded, eyes moving over Sherlock as he took a few tentative steps closer. The purple shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose his pale forearms; hair tousled, jaw oddly smooth.

“Did you shave?” John asked, the question out before he could stop himself.

“A shower was not optional after the day I have had.” Sherlock replied, and John understood that this was a ceremonial washing away of his memories, a chance to delete the unpleasantness as well as to decontaminate his transport.

“What were you doing?” John asked, stopping a few feet away. Sherlock had slid a little down the wall, his stance wide, his eyes on a level with John. It was another thing to add to the surrealism of the day, John thought absently; being at eye level with Sherlock.

“I kept you safe, John.” Sherlock replied evenly, though his eyes shone with emotion.

A shuddering relief passed through John, and he knew. He knew that Sherlock had risked his life today for him, that Mycroft knew of it, that John might not have ever known had Sherlock failed. And he knew, as one knows the touch of a kindred soul, that he and Sherlock were irreversibly intertwined, their paths destined to fuse closer and closer until they melded into one. The certainty was a release after so long wanting and wondering. John knew that this dim room, bound by watery rivulets on slick glass, was the place and time toward which their souls had been yearning.

He stepped forward carefully, feet stopping when they were bracketed by Sherlock’s. As he moved closer, Sherlock’s back hit the wall, and John followed him, hips pressing, pinning him to the space. Their gaze had never faltered, and Sherlock’s eyes held the same inevitability as was pulsing through John’s veins. John’s mouth touched Sherlock’s, lips parted; they met the open mouth of Sherlock, who moaned at the touch. John’s hands were at Sherlock’s hips, and he could feel Sherlock’s fist bunching at his shirt, the friction over his ribs just this side of ticklish. John deepened the kiss, tongue searching until it could twist with Sherlock’s, the smooth motion of their jaws working in tandem as they danced together. Leaning in further allowed John’s chest to lean against Sherlock’s, the contact along such an expanse of their bodies drawing gasps from both of them. They kissed like that, in the falling darkness, hands grabbing, breath mingling, hearts entwining until John drew away with a gasp. The bubble in which they existed seemed complete; the rain a background to the crescendo of their mutual understanding, but otherwise, not a sound intruded on their tiny universe. John smiled. Surreal indeed.


End file.
